


cover'd with an antic face

by MercutioLives



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Abuse, Crossdressing, Gender Dysphoria, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"When Tybalt Capulet was ten years old, his father caught him trying on his mother's jewelry."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	cover'd with an antic face

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even gonna pretend this is anything apart from a purely self-indulgent fic. I just really wanted to write sad crossdresser Tybalt. Though I must include a **trigger warning for child abuse and homophobic slurs** at the very beginning of the fic. It's not exceptionally graphic (I don't believe) but it is there.

When Tybalt Capulet was ten years old, his father caught him trying on his mother's jewelry. Though the rings and bracelets were too large for his small hands, there was something about the way they jangled together that made him feel calm, relaxed. Mother had died the year before, and wearing her things was almost like she was still there with him. When Father's tall, imposing form filled the doorway, Tybalt tried to explain – but Father would hear none of it. Tybalt flinched away from the fists that pummeled against his back and shoulders, ducking his head, eyes squeezed shut against tears that he'd learned would only make the beating worse. He had learned, too, not to beg or plead or promise to be good: these things would only make Father angrier. The jewelry was wrenched from his body and slammed down onto the vanity, and then Father was gone – but not before snarling his parting words:

"Capulets don't breed _faggots_ , boy. If I catch you in here again, I'll break your neck."

From anyone else, it might have been an idle threat, but coming from Father, he knew it to be nothing but the truth. He never returned to Mother's room, never touched her jewelry again. Whatever became of it, Tybalt never knew: probably it was sold, or possibly locked away. It was for the best, regardless.

*

When Tybalt was sixteen, his father was killed in a street brawl. His aunt wept into his shoulder, and he tried to feel something – anything at all – for the man who'd given him life and taught him to be strong. He tried, and failed. While his aunt was at the funeral reception, drinking away her sorrows, Tybalt was in her closet. He ran his hands gingerly along silk and satin and fur; there was a strange, sad longing inside as he examined her fine clothing. His father's words echoed faintly at the back of his mind as he took a black cocktail dress down from its hanger and surreptitiously stole back into his own bedroom. He locked the door and placed a chair in front of it. The dress was draped across his bed, and Tybalt's hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. They shook as he unzipped his fly and stepped out of his trousers. A vague sort of nausea hit him when he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on his wardrobe door: too tall, too gangly, skin marred with pale, silvery scars that were Capulet badges of honour.

The fabric felt cool against his skin.

Tybalt looked up and saw himself: the gown fit surprisingly well, though perhaps he was a bit tall for it. He smoothed it down and just _looked_ for a good, long time – and then he sat himself down on his bed and cried for even longer.

(The next day, he overheard his aunt asking one of the housemaids about her black dress. Tybalt tried not to think of it, hung in the very back of his closet. He tried not to feel guilty that the maid got sacked for stealing something she never touched.)

*

When Tybalt was twenty-one, there was a rumour that he'd finally found himself a girlfriend. Why else would he be perusing dress shops, selecting expensive gowns and accessories to match? People talked and speculated about who was the girl: she must be tall, certainly, and elegant, with refined taste. He let them gossip, and said nothing. The more they guessed, the farther from the truth they would be, and so much the better. He would hide his purchases away and claim a migraine, so that he could lock his door and draw his thick, dark curtains – and if people thought he was lying so that he could smuggle in some girl he oughtn't be seeing, so much the better for that as well. Over the years, he'd learned how to dress, what colours and cuts flattered him best, how to make himself up so that his features were striking but not overbearing.

There were nights when he would lie awake and wonder if perhaps he was a woman inside the body of a man, but he always came to the conclusion that this wasn't so. He was comfortable as a man, for all that his thoughts were plagued with self-loathing. And certainly, he _liked_ women as well: he was no virgin lamb. Even so, he remembered what his father had said, eleven years past; he remembered, and he would pull the soft, comforting gown from his body – sometimes tearing it in the process – and stuff it in the back of the closet with its fellows, swearing it would never see the light of day again. It wasn't that he hated gay people, or even the thought of liking men himself, but the memory of his father's threat, the fear it instilled, the awful sense that someone else would _know_ and make good on it – it was this that inspired revulsion in him. Even so, he could never stop himself from digging into the back of his closet again.

"My, my. Isn't _this_ a surprise," a familiar voice purred from across the room, causing Tybalt to freeze as he fastened the stays on his newest dress, a deep burgundy number with a slit that ran to the middle of his thigh. He whirled around to see none other than Mercutio, perched on the sill of his wide-open window. He was certain he'd shut and locked it – he always did – yet here Mercutio was, one leg swinging lazily as he grinned.

"What are you doing here?" Tybalt demanded, hating how hoarse and choked his voice sounded, and hating even more the mortified flush he felt creeping up the back of his neck. "Leave me alone. And I swear to God, if you tell _anyone_ –" Mercutio hopped down from the windowsill and sauntered over, and Tybalt cursed not having his dagger on his person.

"Worry not, my dear Prince of Cats – ah, or is it _Princess_ of Cats, now?" Tybalt stiffened as he was approached, and backed up a step. "I'm the last person in Verona you need fear in this matter. People like you and I, we keep one another's secrets."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me be, Mercutio." Tybalt backed up once more, and ended up sat heavily on his bed, with Mercutio towering over him. Hating to be caught at such a disadvantage, he bared his teeth, tense and ready to fight – the fact that he was still in a dress completely irrelevant to him now. He only wanted Mercutio gone, preferably with a black eye or a bloody nose to warn him against speaking of what he'd witnessed. Rather than approaching further, however, Mercutio gave a sigh as if coming to a decision.

"You truly are dense, Tybalt, my dear. I'm telling you that I am also not the gender I was assigned at birth. Under this confessedly _devilish_ exterior is what most people would consider a 'female' body. I'm transgender, if you need to have a tidy little word for it." Slowly, understanding dawned, and Tybalt was caught between an instinctive recoil and awe at what had just been divulged to him. He glanced down at himself, at the now-rumpled red dress that shaped to his figure, then back up at Mercutio, whose comparatively shabby jeans and oversized University of Verona sweatshirt hid any hint of a figure at all.

"No – no, I'm not," he began, inwardly flinching in disgust at how small he sounded; he swallowed, "not transgender. No, I just. It makes me feel better, sometimes, to dress like this." He wasn't sure why he was explaining himself to Mercutio della Scala of all people, but the words fled his mouth before he could stop them. He waited for a sarcastic crack or laughter, something to prove that Mercutio had only been lying to pull out a new reason to mock him, but when he looked back up, he saw on the other man's face a queer sort of gravity. It looked well on him: much better, at least, than the foolish, mocking smirk that was his default expression.

"It suits you, in any case. I may not know much about women's clothing, but I can say that you fill it out nicely. You have the shape for it. Shame I'll never see you wear it in a proper light." Mercutio did grin then, and Tybalt felt the flush deepen and his throat tighten. Warmth pooled deep in his belly, not quite the rage he was looking for, but serviceable enough that when Mercutio leaned in to kiss him he was not afraid to return it with teeth. The sensation of cool hands caressing him through the cool satin of his dress sparked shivers all along his skin. Mercutio moved his hands slowly across his chest, his hips, and _down_ – all the while delivering kisses and playful nips to his jaw and throat. When he was splayed on his back, with the dress hiked up to his waist and Mercutio's hands and mouth gradually pulling him undone, it was a desperate struggle for him to choke back the moans and whimpers that threatened to break loose.

Somehow, it ended with both of them still clothed; when Tybalt reached for Mercutio's belt to return the favour, he was stopped by a firm hand and a whisper of, "Not tonight."

He helped clean up, and assisted Tybalt in wriggling out of his rumpled dress and into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The dress joined its fellows in the back of the closet, and apart from a lingering pinkness in his cheeks, it appeared that nothing at all was amiss. With one more quick peck on the lips, Mercutio disappeared the way he came, and Tybalt was left wondering what had just happened. Over the next several weeks, he was visited several more times by the Prince's nephew. Sometimes Tybalt was dressed up, others he was not, but it always ended with him in a breathless heap while Mercutio was fully dressed and untouched by either himself or Tybalt. Every time Tybalt attempted to, or even expressed interest in reciprocating, he was met with an enigmatic smile and that same whisper: "Not tonight."

*

It was a week after Tybalt's twenty-second birthday. His secrets – both that of his predilection for women's clothing, and his clandestine meetings with Mercutio – remained his own. The latter had lately run to an almost complete stop, though not by Tybalt's own decision. Mercutio seemed to have made himself scarce of late, and on the few occasions on which they had met, either in the streets or in Tybalt's bedroom, he seemed strangely subdued. His jokes were notably few, his smiles forced and stale. Tybalt wanted to ask, but something in the way Mercutio looked at him forbade him opening his mouth. He wasn't sure why this filled him with distress; there was nothing between them, only casual trysts and a cordiality that barely counted as friendship. What was it to him if Mercutio was having some sort of personal problem? It was nothing to do with Tybalt at all.

Yet this line of reasoning did not prevent him from climbing the tree outside of Mercutio's bedroom window one night, careful to avoid the palace guard. The window itself was locked, so he was forced to knock on the windowpane, whilst also trying not to fall from the tree limb on which he was only just balanced. Mercutio came to the window dressed only in a worn t-shirt and boxer shorts, and Tybalt noticed for the first time the curve of hips and breasts that he was sure Mercutio took care to keep hidden from the world. Suddenly, he felt acutely embarrassed, like a voyeur watching someone at their most private moment. He wanted to disappear, but it was too late: the window was open, and Mercutio stood there with an eyebrow arched. He was not smiling.

"What are you doing here? It's one o'clock in the morning." Mercutio's voice, empty of its usual amused lilt, was instead rough with something Tybalt couldn't name. Anger, perhaps, or annoyance.

"I don't know." It was true, though he knew it was the wrong answer. Mercutio sighed and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes. Tybalt was sure that he'd be told to go home, and the window would be closed on him, effectively ending whatever it was the two of them had for good. The window was not closed, however, and Mercutio's mouth flickered briefly from its perturbed line into the faintest glimmer of amusement.

"Well, you're here, so you'd best come inside. Careful – it's a bit of a reach, even for someone as tall as you." With caution (and Mercutio's aid) Tybalt climbed through the window and into Mercutio's bedroom. He glanced around, having never seen it before. Curled up in an armchair on the opposite side of the room was another young man, a few years Mercutio's junior in age but just as red-haired and lanky, with his nose in a book. Tybalt recognized him as Mercutio's brother Valentine, though the two of them had never actually spoken. Valentine looked up from his reading and inclined his head politely in Tybalt's direction before unfolding himself from the chair and exiting the room in silence. In that time, Mercutio had shut the window and drawn the curtains, and was now rounding Tybalt to look at him dead-on.

"You haven't been by in a while," Tybalt said without prelude. The words sounded plaintive and needy to his own ears, and they made him flinch. Mercutio must have heard it as well, for his eyebrow was once again raised. He added lamely: "You haven't seemed…like yourself."

"You're concerned for me." It wasn't a question, and Tybalt couldn't discern whether Mercutio was offended, amused, or something else completely. His first instinct was to contradict this assumption, but he knew that would be a lie: his actions proved this clearly enough. So he nodded slowly, and was rewarded by another brief, but more lingering smile. It wasn't kind, but it was better than nothing at all. "Well, will wonders never cease. As you can see, I'm perfectly intact. Not yet dead or maimed or anything of the kind." The tone of Mercutio's voice was nearly rueful, and that more than anything prompted Tybalt to act.

Mercutio didn't push him away when their mouths came together, but he was entirely passive, nothing like his usual style of kissing at all. He parted his lips and allowed Tybalt's tongue to press between them, and he didn't feel reluctant, yet neither did he seem eager; when the kiss ended, Mercutio's expression was sad.

"This won't work. You like women, and I won't be that for you." Tybalt couldn't pretend to be anything but startled at this: such thoughts had never crossed his mind. In their meetings, Mercutio had always been the one to take control, to lead and manipulate the situation, and Tybalt had come to learn that he preferred it that way. The surrender brought relief, in much the same way as donning a gown and makeup brought relief. With anyone else, he was Tybalt the Capulet Blade, Tybalt who was angry and terrifying and aloof; with Mercutio, he was something else. Something safe. With Mercutio della Scala, of all people, he didn't have to pretend.

"I don't want that," he managed to protest at length, forcing the words out despite how clumsy they felt on his tongue, frustration leaking through only because it was the only way he knew how to express himself. "I don't want you to be a woman for me. I want – I _want_ –" If there was something Tybalt was never good at, it was saying what he wanted. He wasn't good at wanting in general: wanting meant being _someone_ , instead of just a cog in the Capulet machine. But he did want, as much as it frightened him to admit.

"What? What do you want, Tybalt?" Mercutio's voice was no longer edged with derision, but soft, tentative. Tybalt had never known Mercutio to be tentative. He had to speak.

"You. I want you. I don't have to lie to you. You kept my secret. You…understand…" He trailed off, unable to find more words, but thankfully, Mercutio seemed to get the message in spite of his patchwork explanation. The sadness that had settled over him like a mantle seemed to lift a fraction, and he stepped closer to rest his head upon Tybalt's shoulder, though he was careful not to press their bodies together. His hand traced the strap of the rucksack that Tybalt had forgotten he'd brought with him.

"What's in here? Don't tell me you were hoping we'd run away together?" This was playful, a jibe closer to what Tybalt was used to hearing from Mercutio. Slinging it from his shoulder and onto the floor, he opened it and slowly pulled out the same burgundy dress he had worn on the first night. Recognition dawned on Mercutio's face, and a curious little smile quirked his lips upward.

"I had hoped that…maybe I could wear it for you." He felt like a schoolboy asking his crush to a dance. It was very nearly humiliating, especially when Mercutio laughed – though his laughter was not full of mockery, but delight. His hands came to brush the smooth satin, then he moved across the room to lock the bedroom door. It didn't take long for Tybalt to strip down, and when he saw himself in Mercutio's wardrobe mirror, he didn't see the gangly, scarred youth of sixteen, or even the shameful young man of twenty-one. He wasn't sure what he saw, or if he even liked it, but as Mercutio helped him fasten the stays he was sure that he was different from the person he'd been. He felt Mercutio's eyes on him as he made himself up, and it was awkward – he'd never permitted Mercutio to watch him, before – but when he was finished he saw the look of approval on Mercutio's face; he was grateful he chose a lipstick that wouldn't smear.

Some time later, he was sprawled and panting on Mercutio's bed, with Mercutio lapping at the remains of his spend like a kitten. With a soft sound of want, he tugged at the hem of Mercutio's t-shirt, but as ever, he was forestalled by a hand covering his.

"Not tonight," he whispered, much to Tybalt's disappointment – yet unlike before, he leaned down for a kiss, and smiling against Tybalt's lips, he added: "Soon."

 


End file.
